


thumbprints

by mariner



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariner/pseuds/mariner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor James had always suffered from that special brand of fatal attraction that drew him irrevocably to dangerous men.<br/>In which James is a bit of a nymphomaniac and Thomas is much more of an asshole than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely not the most quality piece of writing I've ever produced but I had fun with it and that's what really counts, right?  
> Begins the evening after Thomas and James first meet.

“I want you staying away from my brother,” Ada had told James that night when they were sat together by the fire, without looking up from her book. From his short experience as her friend and lodger, James knew already that Ada was right more often than not, but still he couldn’t suppress a raised eyebrow. Thomas had intrigued him perhaps more than he should admit, with his steely yet somehow effeminate demeanour, his slender hands and delicate facial structure made frightening more than appealing by his queer eyes. Clear as crystal and cold as ice, peering as if frozen beneath the Thames through the grit and smoke collected on his skin from the London air. There was a man with secrets, one who promised danger, one, James ventured to guess, with scars hidden under his clothes that he would love to discover, trace with his fingers, his tongue.  
“Why’s that?” James asked airily, his eyes also staying firmly attached to the book in his lap - the debut novel of an American writer by the name of Fitzgerald, a member of a new growing movement of writers and artists that James was longing desperately to join.  
Ada closed her book suddenly.  
“James, I’m serious. Don’t think I didn’t see that cheeky grin of yours as you left the room today. Thomas'll smile back as it suits him, but you’ll find no warmth there. He sees everyone around him as tools that’ll work to his advantage or disadvantage, and he will use them as such. Tommy - my entire family - they’re dangerous, James. Just don’t get involved. They aren’t heroes. They aren’t William.”  
James couldn’t stop himself from reacting to the name harshly.  
“You know, Ada, it’s odd how you know all about my past and yet I don’t know a thing about yours. I can see plain enough that your brother is no saint - but I know dangerous men. I can handle them.”  
Ada shook her head.  
“Tommy is - just please. James, I couldn’t stand to see you get hurt. He’ll - break your heart.”  
Ada saw James recoil at that statement, and rushed to finish it with another thought.  
“He’ll get you killed. I won’t let him take away the family I’ve made here, James, I won’t.”  
“Ada.” James met her eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me. I promise.”

But poor James had always suffered from that special brand of fatal attraction that drew him irrevocably to dangerous men. And the next time Ada’s brother came calling, she had stepped out for the day not five minutes before. James told him this when he opened the door to see him standing on the stoop, but Thomas insisted that it was alright - he’d come to talk to James anyhow. And then he smiled at him, a peculiar smile that did not in any way melt the chipped ice of his pale blue eyes.  
After pouring the man a finger of Irish whiskey, James sat lightly next to him on the sofa in Ada’s spacious living room - perhaps a little closer than was normal for two barely acquainted men. This did not go unnoticed (nothing, James thought, could go unnoticed past Thomas) and the older man’s mouth twisted into a slight smile as he looked at their almost-touching knees before he turned his gaze to James’ face.  
“Now, James, as you know, Ada is my sister and family is very important to me. Her safety in London is of utmost concern. So after finding you here, living in the house I pay for, I did some looking into your past. A character check, if you will.”  
James broke eye contact and closed his legs tightly, drawing his knee away from the other man.  
“I found some interesting things out about you, James. You spent a number of weeks in prison for association with anarchists and anarchist activity. Notably, you were quite close to William Boyce, who I hear was quite the hero to the movement. Is this true?”  
James was unsure how to respond. If he admitted to it, would he be evicted from Ada’s house and have to like a rat on the street? Or, would Thomas be impressed - see James as a dangerous man himself? But before he could respond, Thomas continued.  
“As I am sure you are aware, there is a certain reputation that follows anarchists. They’re quite, shall we say, explosive fellows.” That same, cold smile. James didn’t laugh.  
“I do not think it entirely suitable to have a keg of gunpowder living with my sister and her two year old son, the son of my best friend no less.”  
Here, James opened his mouth to protest.  
“I’ve quite left that life behind, it’s really not as if I was so involved in-“  
Thomas cut him off.  
“However, I also have some use of a man like you.” James almost jumped out of his skin when Thomas lay a hand on his knee, shifting his position on the sofa to so that those eyes were turned right on him. And then, he leaned in, and said softly into his ear,  
“A man like you can be useful in a business like mine, if willing to be kept under control.”  
James exhaled, barely realizing that he was holding his breath, and inhaled sharply as he felt Thomas move his hand up his leg to his groin. In that moment there was absolutely nothing he desired more than to surrender himself totally to Thomas’ control. And he was undoing his slacks and he was biting his ear and - before James could stop it, before he could think of Ada and her plea, he was in Thomas’s hand and then he was crying out and Thomas was smiling that same cold smile as he panted in his arms and whispered in his ear that now, Thomas needed something from him. Something for the cause, if you will, James.


	2. 2

The first time Thomas brought James to the docks, he asked very little of him but to stand outside and not speak unless spoken to. It was a cold wintery day, damp by the river, and James smoked three cigarettes as if they could keep him warm as he waited. Small glints of warm orange light among the monochrome of the workers, of the water, of the warehouses, of the all-encompassing fog that hung by the water. Small glints of warm orange light that he drew into himself as he thought about Thomas’s hands. Afterwards, when they walked back to Ada’s house, James tried to pull him into a dark warehouse, but Thomas pushed away and told him not today. James bit his lip but did not push the matter, hanging a few steps behind for the rest of the walk back, smoking his fourth cigarette.

The second time, the boy at the door, around the same age as James, told him to come in with Thomas. Told him, Alfie Solomons wants to meet the anarchist. James’s heart stopped and the easy-going smile he was wearing drooped when he heard that infamous name. He glanced at Thomas, whose expression was unreadable, and realized for the first time just how dangerous he must be if his “business” involved one of the most powerful gangsters in London.  
If James had thought Thomas projected the image of a dangerous man he was in no way prepared for Alfie Solomons. Bow-legged and broad-shouldered, with rough hands that James was sure could snap his neck in an instant, Solomons was a fatal hazard to anyone within arm’s reach and a hostile threat to anyone in the same building as him. His eyes, in sharp contrast to Thomas’s clear periwinkle, were black as death, wide and wild with the promise of peril. His beard hid the lower half of his face, the twist of his mouth and the subtleties of human expression left concealed, unread. He was impossible to predict, and impossible to escape. James felt arousal crashing with the fear deep in the pit of his belly like waves in the ocean as soon as he saw him.  
While Thomas and Alfie discussed the newest challenges developing in their blooming import/export business, James could do little but stand near the back of the room and wonder what his purpose was at the meeting - what his purpose was to Thomas at all, and how he had gained this title of “the anarchist” among them all. After sorting out their shares of a special weapons export, Solomons leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room. When Solomons made eye contact with him, James couldn't help but bite his lip, in arousal, in fear, he wasn’t quite sure. Were they not for him, by this time, one and the same? He quickly looked away, but Solomons kept his eyes fixed on him, black holes burning into the side of his face. He suddenly said,  
“Right, Tommy, you run along now, but leave your anarchist behind. I’d like some time alone with him, if you will.”  
James was shocked at how he spoke to Thomas like he was a schoolboy, but quickly became more concerned about why Solomons wanted him alone. He looked at Thomas’s face as he walked out of the room, trying to attract his attention as if he might give him answers - who was he supposed to be to Solomons? Thomas’s dangerous anarchist companion? Because that isn’t him, and he’s a bloody awful actor - or did Solomons want something else from him, something James wasn’t sure he wanted to give, something he wanted to give to Thomas instead… But Thomas didn’t even look his way before the door was shut behind him and he was trapped in a room alone with one of the most dangerous men in London.

Alfie Solomons leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk and lighting a cigar. James stood awkwardly in front of him, unsure what he should do or say, or if he should do or say anything at all. He just watched the silent bliss Solomons seemed to extract from his cigar, taking a deep drag before pushing the smoke out of his mouth and inhaling it up through his nose - Irish waterfall, James thought that trick was called, a random fact to hold on to, to take his mind off of the unbearable anticipation of the silence.  
Finally, Solomons spoke.  
“You were in prison, for a while, weren’t you.” It was hardly said like a question.  
“Yes, ah - I was. Reading Gaol.” James added hastily, though unsure what it was supposed to add to the conversation. And unsure how all these strange men were finding out so much about the personal intimacies of his life story.  
“Prison life suit you? No, no, didn’t think so. I gotta tell you mate, you don’t much look the anarchist type.”  
James looked down at himself and realized he had worn a cardigan and slacks to meet the toughest tough-man in the country.  
“Who says you can’t practice anarchy in comfort and style?” he asked weakly. Solomons barked a short laugh, but ploughed on.   
“And, yet, there you were, for action and association. Association with Will Boyce, were it not?”  
James still winced when he heard his name.  
“Now, boy, I know a thing or two about old Willy. For one, he was a crazy fucker. Insane. Psycho, if you will. Blew himself up on Wall Street just to prove a point and left no one behind to hammer it home. These anarchists, they either kill themselves for the cause or piss themselves at the thought of taking action beyond their pretentious speeches and debates. Which one are you?”  
James opened his mouth but did not know what to say.  
“No, don’t answer me, cause I know, boy, I know you’re neither. Because the other thing about William Boyce was that he was, by just about every definition, a raging homosexual. Liked the boys, he did, liked them lots.” Solomons took his feet of of his desk, sitting up and leaning towards James. “So, my thoughts are, that the only thing a choir-boy type like you were doing in association with a man like him, was warming his bed at night. Spreading your asscheeks and sucking his cock.”  
James glanced nervously at the pistol that Solomons had quite openly on his desk.  
“And I would wager quite a lot of money that from the minute you walked in here you’ve thought of nothing else but doing the same for me.”  
James’s breath caught in his throat and before he could react, the older, larger man was up and around his desk, standing over him.  
“I don’t appreciate Tommy’s trickery,” Solomons growled, grabbing James’ face with one large hand and forcing him back against the cold stone wall. “And he’s left me with only you to pay for it, poor thing.”  
Solomons forced one leg between James’ own, and felt how aroused he was against his thigh.   
“You like the rough stuff, don’t you,” he hissed, grinning wickedly as he snatched the pistol off of his desk and forced it under James’ chin. James gathered up the rest of his courage and spat back,  
“Only when it’s paid for.”  
At that, Solomons pressed the cold mouth of his gun further into James’ throat and he couldn’t help but let out a choked cry.   
“Oh, no no no,” said Solomons, covering James’ mouth with a large, rough hand. “That won’t do here. Quiet now boy.” He put the gun back down on the desk and dragged his hand down James’ face. He forced his lips open, pushing in a finger, then another. “You don’t want your lover Tommy out there knowing you’re letting yourself be whored out to me, do you?” James bit down, couldn’t help himself, bit down hard till he tasted blood. Solomons barely reacted, his head tilted slightly and his black eyes opaque as ever as he wiped the blood down James’ lower lip, his chin, then snarled into his ear - “I want you down on your knees.”  
James told himself that he had little option but to do as he was told, but he dropped down eagerly enough - Though he didn’t break his gaze from Solomons’, projecting coldness and hatred at him. If anything, it made the man more excited, and something dark at the back of James’ mind knew that he wanted to see the older man pleased. Pleasured. Deriving that pleasure from him. So when he undid his trousers, James wrapped his hand around his cock and put it in his mouth, watching the way he reacted to every movement of his tongue. When Solomons forced it down his throat and James’ eyes began to water, he didn’t bite or scratch - and he felt those hands on the back of his head, tangled in his thick brown locks, reminding himself that with a well placed twist he might be dead.   
Solomons grunted and balled his fist in James’ hair, James swallowed and the deed was done. But Solomons held his head there for a moment, held his softening erection in his mouth as he picked up his cigar from where it had been smouldering in the ashtray and took a long drag. He watched the smoke lazily as it curled up away from his face, and then with a deep exhale let James rise to his feet. He stood, looked into his face, and, to the shock of both men, James kissed Solomons. Boldly and messily on his lips, which he was surprised to find were full and sweet with the taste of white rum and sugar underneath his scratchy beard. Solomons roughly grabbed the back of his head - a reminder, I am in control here, but returned the kiss, deeply, hungrily.  
“Looking for more, mate?” he said hoarsely when they paused, reaching down the back of his trousers. James whimpered softly as his thumb found where to press up into him and Solomons bit down on his neck with sharp, crooked teeth. But just as that whimper grew into a moan at the back of his throat, Solomons drew away from him. He turned his broad back and circled back around his desk, sinking into his chair and taking out his account book. James hardly knew what to do with himself, standing like a fool on the other side of that desk with an erection chafing against the crotch of his slacks.  
“Not today.” Alfie Solomons grunted simply, scratching notes and numbers into his book, looking just as he had when James had first walked into the office.   
“Is there - something wrong with - “ James croaked, feeling waves of shame begin to wash over him, the taste of salt at the back of his mouth suddenly seeming unbearable.  
Solomons’ black eyes met James’ with such an opaque, hard gaze that James had to look away.  
“Look mate, when I tell you to get out of my office, you get out. Not discussed.”  
James was fully aware that Solomons had never told him to leave but took the chance to escape anyway, feeling dirty and used as he thought of Thomas, thought of how coldly he walked past James and left him in that room with that brute. He walked with his head down out of the warehouse, feeling like every single workers’ gaze followed him as he tripped and stumbled out of the building feeling sick as a dog. He got himself outside to the cool, smoky air of the docks before he coughed and retched, his empty stomach giving up nothing but a few strings of spittle that he watched silently drift down the Thames.


	3. 3

That night, feeling small and very young and lost as he curled up in bed, James dreamed disturbing dreams. His hands were on William’s chest, peachy and whole, so warm and solid under his fingers that he was sure it was real. That same jagged scar streaked across his breast, breaking up the faded black flag tattoo above his heart. James traced his fingers along, he felt it and saw it in such microscopic detail that he could pick out the darker pinpricks of skin around it where the needle had pierced and threaded through. Then they were kissing, soft and sweet, the way Will used to kiss him after they made love and drifted together in the soft darkness that came with fading ecstasy. Kissing him felt like plunging into cool, familiar waters, but when James came up for air Will’s face staring back at him was twisting and distorting, mixing with Thomas’ features. But what frightened him most were the eyes, not Will’s warm hazel or Thomas’ frozen blue, but black and fierce as coal. Alfie Solomons’ face began to form around them and James felt a hand close around his throat, strangling and choking him into a dark, dreamless sleep, silent and deep as death.

The next morning James’ face was bruised where Solomons had grabbed his cheeks and forced his mouth open. Soft purple thumbprints had bloomed like flower petals on his skin, as different as possible from the rough, calloused fingers from which they were born. James was haunted by his thought that actually, they were quite beautiful.


End file.
